


Five Times Jon Goes to Pride and One Time He Doesn't

by shinyopals



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Canon Asexual Character, Canon compliant ships, Character Study, Coming Out, F/M, Jon/Martin developing over time, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, MAG170 is referenced but not in detail, POV Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sort of anyway, Spoilers for The Magnus Archives Season 5, canon typical flirting in the post apocalyptic hellscape, cw: brief biphobia, cw: brief canon typical suicidal ideation, figuring it out, other s5 spoilers are more general, pre s1 Jon/Georgie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:34:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24740878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinyopals/pseuds/shinyopals
Summary: Jon's first kiss is at age twenty, and is a sort of tipsy, groping thing in the corner of someone’s house party. There are no fireworks or butterflies or anything he was promised from books and films and television, but he doesn’t hate it, and that counts for something. He realises that night that the fireworks are a metaphor, as unrealistic and imagined as the slaying of the dragon, the defeating the robot uprising, or the “happily ever after”. The world begins to make a lot more sense now that he knows it’s all just an endless charade, now that he’s finally in on the joke. He still doesn’t really understand why everyone seems to have focused on this one inside joke, but at least now he’s part of it.Jon goes to Pride over the years. He figures some things out, and doesn't figure other things out at all.
Relationships: Georgie Barker/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 82
Kudos: 327





	Five Times Jon Goes to Pride and One Time He Doesn't

**Author's Note:**

> This is not at all a self-indulgent the-author-is-working-through-some-things fic, why do you ask?
> 
> Huge thank you to **rustkid** , to [smallhorizons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallhorizons) and to [Ostentenacity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ostentenacity) for the beta read on this! <3 <3 <3 
> 
> Also please note the tags for **warnings** \- there's two very brief moments that I hope shouldn't be too awful for anyone - but I've put in a bit more detail in the end notes if you've got a concern.

## 1998

The first time, he’s eleven years old and in town shopping with his gran.

He’d rather not be. He’d rather be at home. He’s got books that haven’t been read, and if Gran had left him by himself, maybe he could finally test how well his new penknife (illegitimately acquired from Derrick Holder’s older brother in exchange for three Gameboy games that Jon’s already finished anyway) does at cutting wood and fabric. He is, though, he has been told repeatedly, Too Young to be left alone, so his tests will have to wait.

Being in town does mean he sees the people. 

There’s a small group of them – maybe forty – crowded together outside the town hall. Not that people in town on a Saturday are unusual, but this group, and the reactions they get, have several things that mark them out. 

Firstly there are the colours. They’re wearing rainbows. Well, not all of them. Some of them have on ordinary clothes. Some of them are wearing other colours. All in all, however, they are brightly, warmly, interestingly colourful as compared to how grown-ups normally dress. Some of them have flags in those same colours. And some of them too have colourful placards and posters. There are symbols and words, and Jon tests the syllables on his lips, but even though many of the individual words are familiar, he thinks he doesn’t understand.

Secondly, he notices that people who are not in the group, who are walking past them, definitely notice them too. (How could they not, with the rainbows?) However, most of them don’t seem to be excited or interested by colourful posters and t-shirts. Some people frown and hurry away. Some people’s lips twist unpleasantly. Some people look embarrassed. Some, like Jon, look confused. Some at least are happy, but not many.

Thirdly, there are the police. There are a few of them. They stand out in their black uniforms and sharply pressed white shirts. They’re not… doing anything. They’re just watching. Watching the people wearing rainbows, as if they’re waiting.

Jon watches the police. Gran always says to be careful, to be polite, to be respectful. The police are meant to be there to help, she says, but Jon remembers that they always seem to insist on interrupting him in his adventures and bringing him home right when he’s about to discover something _interesting_ , which doesn’t seem very helpful to him at all. Gran also says he must do as they tell him whenever he speaks to them, or else he’ll get in big trouble. And now there’s quite a lot of police, all for these people with rainbow shirts and posters.

‘What’s going on?’ he asks his gran, pointing to the people. ‘Who are they?’

Gran purses her lips. ‘Don’t you worry,’ she says. ‘And don’t point. We’re going to the Co-op.’

‘But _Gran_ –’

‘I’ll explain when you’re older,’ she says, which she must know is _the most annoying thing in the universe_. Then, despite the fact that he’s _eleven_ , and he’s _way too old for this_ , she takes his hand to make him follow her into the shop. If anyone sees him, he’s actually just going to have to die on the spot, because it’s better than someone noticing that Gran is _holding his hand_ like he’s a baby.

He sulks at her heels around the aisles, scuffing his shoes along the floor, leaving little black marks where the soles of his shoes rub off as he does. He tries to draw interesting patterns but it’s hard when he has to walk to keep up. Gran is preoccupied with her shopping list, or else she’d tell him to stop. 

He huffs, but is ignored, and he wonders if it’s actually possible to die of boredom. He thinks he’s about to find out. They must have been in the shop for a year already.

He huffs again, and kicks the bottom of one of the displays. It shifts a little, with a bit of a plastic clatter that makes Gran look up.

‘Jonathan,’ she says warningly, and he tries to look contrite. 

‘Can I go read the magazines?’ he asks. ‘Please?’

She sighs and looks at him in that way she does that he doesn’t really know what to do with, like she’s about to say something, but then she never does.

‘Very well, Jonathan,’ she says. ‘Stay quiet, and don’t get in anyone’s way.’

If anyone had asked he would of course have said that he’d planned to go and read the magazines. There was a new National Geographic _and_ a new Beano. The magazines, however, are right by the door, and when he glances out and into the sunlight he can see that the crowd of people wearing rainbows are still there.

Jon casts an eye over his shoulder and his gran is nowhere to be seen. He is briefly the master of his own destiny. 

He grins.

Outside the shop and in the summer breeze, he skips forwards towards the group of rainbow-wearing grown-ups, and then abruptly stumbles to a halt, some fifteen feet away. Without Gran, the crowd is suddenly _much_ too big and too loud and too… too everything. He’s all ready to ask, but even from here, the _noise_ and the _chatter_ and the _people_ rises in his ears, and he freezes. He needs to know, but… conflicting information about not trusting strangers, but… who he might be able to ask for help, but… people are kind, but… people are not kind, but… he needs answers, but… he doesn’t, but… the police are here to keep him safe, but… he should be wary of them, but– but– but– but– but– 

‘Hey kiddo?’ It’s a quiet voice, coming from somewhere to his left and in front of him. 

Jon realises that he’s shut his eyes.

He opens them, and looks up. The speaker is a woman, he thinks. She has short, spiky hair that’s mostly pink, and lots of silver earrings. She’s wearing a sleeveless top with a rainbow design, and big stompy boots. He likes them a lot, and he likes her hair. She has also – and this is crucial – stepped away from her rainbow-wearing friends and is leaning down towards him, though still keeping distant enough to give him space. This feels safe. He can still escape if he needs to.

‘You all right?’ she asks. ‘You look a little lost?’

‘I am… I am quite well, thank you,’ says Jon. He unclenches his fists. This is safe. He doesn’t need to get any closer to the mass of noise and humans now she is here to answer his questions. He reaches for the zip on his hoodie and fidgets it up and down.

‘Where are your parents?’ she asks.

A preference for accuracy almost moves Jon to announce that they are dead, but he’s learned from experience that this tends to upset those he’s speaking to far more than it upsets him. He doesn’t know why. They were _his_ parents, after all. And if people do not wish to know, they should not ask. However, from years of practice, he has a more suitable answer.

He points behind. ‘My grandmother is shopping. I’ll rejoin her shortly. I just… wanted to ask why you’re all wearing rainbows and standing here?’

The woman’s face crumples strangely. It’s almost a smile, but something in it isn’t quite happy. Jon can’t quite place it though.

‘This is… I suppose it’s Pride,’ she says. 

‘Pride,’ says Jon, testing the word on his lips. He’s seen it on some of the placards. ‘What are you proud of?’

She hesitates again, glancing over her shoulder, and then over Jon’s.

‘I suppose you’re going to tell me it’s _not for children_ ,’ says Jon disgustedly.

She lets out a peal of subdued laughter. ‘It’s… a bit more complicated than that,’ she says. ‘It’s just about… loving who you love, no matter what.’

‘That doesn’t sound complicated,’ he says. ‘Although it does actually sound like a grown-up thing,’ he adds, wrinkling his nose. Derrick Holder’s older brother got a girlfriend recently and has become _incredibly boring_ because of it.

‘Well I love my girlfriend,’ says the woman, ‘but not everyone approves of that.’

Jon considers this. He has never known a woman who has a girlfriend, but he hasn’t known that many with boyfriends either, so perhaps his sample size is just small. 

‘Why?’ he asks.

‘Christ, kid, I wish I could give you a good answer but nobody I’ve ever spoken to nor book I’ve ever read has explained it well enough.’

‘Oh.’ Jon brightens. ‘I don’t suppose you have a Dewey decimal reference for those books?’

The woman stares at him, but it’s a look he sees often so he weathers it.

‘I… don’t,’ she says. ‘I… can tell you what to ask the librarian, if that would help?’

‘That will be sufficient, thank you,’ says Jon.

* * *

Nothing Jon reads on the subject makes much sense at all, but he does begin to ascertain that for once his grandmother may be right: things will start to make more sense when he’s older.

* * *

## 2007

(Things never do start to make more sense when he gets older.)

His first kiss is at age twenty, and is a sort of tipsy, groping thing in the corner of someone’s house party. There are no fireworks or butterflies or anything he was promised from books and films and television, but he doesn’t hate it, and that counts for something, so they go somewhere more private to continue their awkward fumble. He’s never had someone else’s hand down his trousers, and vice versa, and it’s… interesting and pleasant enough. He realises that night that the fireworks are a metaphor, as unrealistic and imagined as the slaying of the dragon, the defeating the robot uprising, or the “happily ever after”. The world begins to make a lot more sense now that he knows it’s all just an endless charade, now that he’s finally in on the joke. He still doesn’t really understand why everyone seems to have focused on this one inside joke, but at least now he’s part of it.

His second kiss is eight months later, with Georgie Barker, and it’s much the same. There still aren’t any fireworks, of course. But she has a particular way of smiling at him that makes him want to smile back, and when they kiss, _that_ ’s the smile he gets. He thinks he wouldn’t mind kissing her again.

Apparently neither would she, because six months after that, they are, against all odds, still dating. It’s not fireworks, but there _are_ butterflies, and something about kissing her and holding her (and being kissed and being held) makes the blood rush to his skin and makes him want to hide his face in the nearest soft object. Sometimes that’s a pillow. Sometimes it’s Georgie herself, who is clever and beautiful and kind, and shouts at him when he annoys her rather than just giving up on him altogether. He’s starting to think he understands the inside joke a little better, even if he can’t quite bring himself to… well... take the next step, even though apparently _everyone else does it_. But Georgie doesn’t seem to mind. And six months is a real, proper relationship. He’s enjoying himself immensely. 

All the same, she’s asking a lot.

‘It’s just… people,’ he says at last. ‘Everywhere. It sounds awful. And… I’m- not sure I- fit there.’

‘Jon,’ she says, in that tone that tells him he’s going to lose this one, ‘you’re dating a bi woman. You’re coming to Pride even if you’re not sure about yourself. You can slope off after half an hour and come back here and I won’t even be mad. But now? You need to take a break from studying.’

He squints up at her and then pulls off his glasses so he can rub his eyes. When he replaces them, the words in his textbook are still wobbling dangerously, and there’s a pounding in his temples. He sighs.

‘Fine,’ he huffs. ‘But I’m _not_ wearing a flag.’

She smiles at him and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and he thinks maybe it’ll be all right.

* * *

It’s not all right, of course. 

It’s bloody miserable. 

He didn’t even think there were this many people living in Oxford and yet _somehow_ they’re all in this one street, crammed in like sardines, yelling and shouting and screaming. He stands rigidly next to Georgie, unable to see anything beyond waving arms and bright hair. Georgie holds his hand and beams broadly. Every so often she’ll lean over and ask if he wants to go. When he says ‘Five more minutes’ through gritted teeth, she’ll give him another smile that almost makes it seem worth it, so the next time she asks, he’ll give the same answer.

Eventually, finally, they’re finished. Georgie’s friend from the LGBT society at uni is hosting a party now, she tells him, and he’s welcome to come. Both she and Jon are surprised when he says yes, but the fact is, the party is only ten minutes away and his own digs are half an hour’s walk, and after the day he’s had he just needs to sit down in the cool. He tells himself he’ll sit down in silence, let Georgie talk for him, and go home as soon as it’s feasibly polite. Maybe, if he’s particularly lucky, he’ll be able to spend fifteen minutes hiding in the loo having a cigarette. 

At first it all goes well – exactly according to plan, in fact. He’s handed a drink and he squashes himself into the corner of a sofa. Georgie sits next to him, and that’s all right. He’s been touched a lot that day by strangers, but Georgie’s a safe and comfortable exception to most of his limits. She chats to her friends and occasionally shoots a little question at Jon to keep him included, but nothing too taxing, and she keeps sending him pleased little smiles that make the discomfort start to mellow, just a little. He can stay, for a little longer, if it makes her happy.

It goes well, at least, until Georgie gets into an argument with a drunk guy lounging on the floor about bisexuality and relationships and all sorts of things. Jon isn’t even following at first – he’d zoned out, staring at the DVD collection in the corner and getting irritated that it was almost but not _quite_ alphabetised – and seriously _who does that_ , either commit or don’t bother at all – but suddenly he’s brought back to reality by raised voices and a sharp tug of Georgie’s hand on his and something about “passing” and then the man on the floor is gesturing vaguely at Jon-

‘- and bringing your straight guy boyfriend to a society party like we don’t even-’

Georgie leans forward and dumps a glass of red wine on the man’s head.

‘I’m not straight,’ says Jon, into the now silent room, and then shuts his mouth abruptly. He jolts. It’s the first time he’s said it.

It’s the first time he’s _thought_ it, in those words at least.

He turns to Georgie and opens his mouth a couple of times, begging for help. She squeezes his hand.

‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Let’s get going. Kev, you’re a fuckhead. Everyone else, see you next week.’ She waves brightly.

They leave Kev-the-fuckhead screaming insults after them in the middle of the room.

* * *

‘So,’ says Georgie the next morning, after they’ve slept and showered and eaten breakfast and Jon is finally starting to feel human again. They’re sitting together on the sofa at her place and he’s trying to read. ‘Last night. That sounded like it might have been… a revelation for you.’

Jon scowls. He kicks at the carpet. ‘It wasn’t a _revelation_ ,’ he huffs. ‘I know I’m not- I’ve known for a while- I just- have never said it. To anyone else.’

He glances at her to see a small smile. ‘Bit of a relief, that,’ she says. ‘I mean, you did tell me your first kiss was a bloke called Daniel.’

‘That doesn’t have to mean anything,’ sulks Jon. ‘Sometimes people experiment.’

‘True,’ she says, with her easy smile, leaning into him warmly. He accepts her comfort and, when she offers her hand, interlaces their fingers.

‘I still don’t know what I _am_ ,’ he says. ‘I don’t know where I’m meant to fit.’ Just because he’s had one so-called revelation, it doesn’t mean he’s had any others in the intervening time. He knows what labels people use – _bisexual_ is Georgie’s choice, and it sticks on his tongue just as much as _straight_ does, however much it seems to him to be slightly baffling to take gender into account when choosing a potential romantic partner.

Can’t he just be?

‘You fit pretty well here,’ says Georgie, wriggling slightly and squeezing his hand. ‘Bony elbows aside. Do you even eat, Jon, I swear to god.’

Jon can’t decide between elbowing her or tucking his elbows in to try and be more comfortable, and in his brief moment of indecision, gets a kiss on his cheek that stalls him.

‘Look,’ she continues, ‘if you decide you do want to think about it, or spend some time figuring it out, or whatever, then I can recommend some good places to start-’

She hands him a sheet of ruled paper, which he unfolds to see a curated list of books, complete with university library reference numbers. She’s evidently written it up in advance, for him, and he blinks over at her for a moment, incapable of saying anything.

‘I know how you work, nerd-man,’ she tells him with a grin.

Jon realises in that second that he’s in love with Georgie Barker.

* * *

## 2014

Love isn’t enough, of course. 

It never is. It tides them over, for a while, but then eventually everything else is too much, and then before long it’s gone, and he’s Jonathan Sims again, not one half of Georgie-and-Jon.

He moves to London and gets a job for an irritating and obscure academic institute studying the paranormal. It’s not quite what he imagined for his adult life, but it’s suitably scholarly. And it scratches an itch he’s been avoiding, a story in his past that he doesn’t have answers for, not yet, but he thinks maybe soon he might. One day, when he’s saved up, he’ll go back to university and get his PhD. He likes to tell himself it’ll be a respectable thesis, discovering some esoterica about one of his favourite historical eras, but something about finding out what’s behind the statements and artefacts they collect at work calls to him. More likely he’ll end up studying the history of ghost stories, he knows. There’s something about them, after all, that captures the imagination, makes people believe they’ve seen… the impossible. 

Then his grandmother dies and suddenly he has money from the house sale. He could quit and go back to university just like he’s always planned. Except he’s not… quite ready yet. He can’t move on, tied to the Institute like a bloody ghost himself. If only he could shake the feeling that if he ever wishes to understand what happened to him as a child, he’ll get more answers here than he will in all the books in the Bodleian.

Romance takes a backseat. 

He doesn’t miss it. He doesn’t need anyone. The ridiculous affairs of his colleagues and their interpersonal gossip are quite enough to convince him that he’s better off alone.

Then gay marriage is legalised.

If he’d been asked beforehand, he wouldn’t have expected to even notice. He has no plan on marrying, certainly not at this point in his life and possibly ever. But something about the smiling faces… the people celebrating… it feels like something has been won, even if it’s not much. Even if there are still battles being fought. He thinks back to the woman in Bournemouth, all those years ago, who just wanted to love her girlfriend, and all the hostile stares from passers-by that he hadn’t understood at the time. He hopes she’s happy, wherever she is. He’s never felt like he’s part of the _community_ , such as it exists, but he’s not… not. So perhaps it’s all right to feel that there’s something to celebrate.

He goes to London’s pride parade that year.

It is immediately and obviously an absolutely _terrible_ idea.

The entirety of _Europe_ seems to be there, pressing in on him, and half of them aren’t even wearing a shirt. He’s instantly sweating, stiff with discomfort, alone in a sea of voices brilliant with love and colour and joy, none of which he even _wants_. What little he can see of the parade over the heads and shoulders of others is corporate sponsor after corporate sponsor, and somewhere along the lines he catches a thrown rainbow wristband with a bank’s name and logo printed in black around the outside, reminding him of the cheap absurdity of it all.

Gritting his teeth – he’s come this far – he sticks it out for thirty minutes before giving up, turning around, and beginning the journey home, pushing through the crush of bodies until–

‘Jon? Jon Sims?’ His name is half shouted and he jumps and whirls around on the spot, shoulders ratcheting inwards with tension.

‘Uh.’ He blinks up at the man who’s accosted him. It’s a face he knows, but it’s not one he normally sees outside the gloomy shelves of the Institute library, and certainly not one that’s normally got a little rainbow flag painted on each cheek. ‘Martin Blackwood, correct?’ he says, ignoring the nauseating lurch in his stomach because it _would be_ , wouldn’t it? Of all the thousands upon thousands of people on this entire road, he would run into Martin bloody Blackwood, from work. 

Martin Blackwood who always forgets to return his books on time. Martin Blackwood who _despite having a sodding master’s degree_ , cannot properly format a citation, and who seems to think formal academic documents should be written like a damn wikipedia article. Martin Blackwood who he regularly thanks his lucky stars he only has to work with once in a blue moon, because everything takes eight times longer than it ought to whenever he does.

And Martin Blackwood, who _smiles all the time_ , and who knows every receptionist and administrator by their first name and partner’s name and where their children are going to school, and who is no doubt the biggest gossip in the entire stupid, stupid building, because it’s not like he’s doing any _work_ with his time, is it?

It’s not that Jon is- 

It’s not that he wants everyone at work to think he’s _straight_ \- 

It’s just that he doesn’t want them to think about him at all. It’s none of their business. The Magnus Institute is a professional, academic establishment interested solely in the study of the supernatural. His personal business is not part of that. His personal business is _never_ and should never be part of that.

‘Good to see you!’ says Martin brightly, beaming at him with that ridiculous smile of his. 

‘Martin?’ There’s a man next to Martin, because of course there is. It’s Pride after all. Nobody goes to Pride alone, except stupid, foolish idiots like Jon.

Martin colours abruptly. ‘Oh. Um. This is. Um. Rob. Rob, this is Jon. From work.’ He hesitates and scratches the back of his neck. ‘Did you want to, um, join us, for a bit?’

‘No,’ says Jon. ‘I was leaving.’ 

‘Bit early in the day to be rushing off, isn’t it?’ says Rob, and Jon bristles.

‘Yes, well, I’m finished here,’ he says. ‘Unless you can tell me there’s anything I’m going to miss other than the seven millionth bank pretending they give a damn, then I think I’ve seen it all.’

‘Sense of community, maybe?’ says Rob, voice rising slightly, and Jon has _no fucking idea_ why he’s being argued with by a man he’s just met.

‘Yes, well, thank you for your input,’ he snaps, hoping the exact level of disdain he is projecting can be heard above the shouting of the crowd. ‘Goodbye.’

‘Jon-’ That’s Martin. Jon is practically vibrating with frustration as he turns _again_ back to Martin. ‘Are you–? You seem– look, I won’t… I won’t _out_ you, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

‘There’s nothing to out,’ snarls Jon, and he stomps off and finally to freedom.

* * *

Against all odds, Martin Blackwood does not gossip.

* * *

## 2017

Things begin to change rather rapidly. 

The promotion of a lifetime turns out to be… possibly the last promotion of his lifetime. His boss is a murderer. He’s quickly losing his humanity. He’s been pledged to save the world. Romance continues to take a backseat.

Except for the fact that Martin Blackwood might be the only person in the whole wide world who he… actually likes. And that Martin still – despite everything – _smiles_ at Jon. 

Smiles like they’re not exhausted, worked to the bone researching some great, grand ritual to bring forth fear they can’t imagine. Smiles like he’s not been trapped against his will in a dismal basement, his entire life threatened time after time after time by things they can’t comprehend or protect themselves against. Smiles like this is where he wants to be when he brings Jon tea in those early mornings or late evenings, when no one else is around, and invites himself to sit in Jon’s office and they talk desultory nonsense during a brief break from the never-ending horror. 

It makes something deep inside of Jon shift and wriggle in a way he doesn’t know what to do with.

It’s one of these late night tea-drinking sessions, Jon idly moving statements he hasn’t read under his burned hand while he carefully cups his tea with the other, watching Martin, who gently holds his mug with both, that Martin unexpectedly asks him what he’s doing tomorrow.

Jon squints. It’s an absurd question. ‘Working?’ he says. He glances at his computer screen and winces. ‘Jesus, is it Friday? Not that it changes my answer.’ He attempts to give a deprecating grimace, play this off as normal workaholism, not that he’s dependent on the statements under his fingertips, not that he’s afraid that every day lost might mean the Stranger succeeds, not that he doesn’t have anywhere else to be. ‘What about you?’

‘I, uh, was thinking of going to Pride, actually,’ says Martin. There’s a faint hint of defiance in his face as he glances at Jon, but he’s been working for the last six days without a break, so Jon’s certainly not going to raise a fuss about him taking a day off, even if he’s surprised at how much he doesn’t relish the prospect of working alone. 

‘Right, uh,’ Jon says, ‘I’m sure it’ll be… fun.’

Martin’s lip twitches.

‘Is, um…’ Jon gestures vaguely with his hand, clicking at the air until it comes to him, ‘-Rob going?’

Martin snorts at that, and it’s somehow incredibly endearing. ‘Christ no,’ he says. ‘He was an ex even then, trying to get back in my good books. I didn’t, um- didn’t really have anyone else to go with. Wasn’t really, um, friends with Tim and that, yet.’

‘Is that why he was so argumentative?’ asks Jon. ‘Showing off?’

Martin colours pink. ‘Um. Something like that,’ he says. ‘Anyway. Um. Tomorrow. I mean, I probably won’t… go for long. Just… a bit of a break from staring at the walls, you know. Just remind myself of all the people we’re meant to be trying to save. It’s easy to forget about the world, down here.’ 

Leaning back in his chair, Jon sighs, a slow exhale of breath. ‘It… can be,’ he admits. He really ought to get out more. He pauses. He glances sideways at Martin. He hesitates. ‘I could-’ he begins, but at the same time Martin is speaking.

‘D’you-?’

They both break off and gesture for the other to speak, and then sit in silence for a few moments while they argue with their eyeballs over who has to come out with it.

Eventually Jon allows Martin this one victory and speaks. ‘If you wanted company for… an hour, I could come along?’ he offers, unsure if he’d be welcome, and even more unsure he wants to go.

‘Oh,’ says Martin, and he’s gone very quiet, and very surprised, as if he hadn’t even guessed that had been what Jon had been about to say. ‘You didn’t, um, I mean, you didn’t seem to like it much,’ he adds at last.

‘I don’t mind it for a bit,’ lies Jon. ‘And I need to get out of this basement sometimes, just like you. If- if you’d like, that is.’

‘Yes. Yeah. Um. Yeah. That’s fine.’ Martin smiles at him then, brilliant and shining, and Jon’s stomach lurches and he thinks maybe it’ll be worth it.

* * *

They meet in a cafe beforehand, Martin in his rainbows and Jon in his weekend clothes, which these days are remarkably similar to his work clothes. It’s extremely hard to fasten shirt buttons with one hand still stiff and often in pain, after all, and the frustration of even trying tends to bubble through him with a fierce, hot anger towards Jude Perry. T-shirts, however, are fine, so they are what he now wears every day of the week.

Martin smiles at him again, and fetches them both tea – although Jon insists on paying – and then Martin asks for his help with some facepaints.

‘I– I can’t really– my left hand– it’s still– wobbly to draw–’ admits Jon at last, furious with himself and the world. ‘I can try, but–’

‘Oh, god, I’m sorry, I didn’t think– I mean; I don’t mind, but–’

They stare at each other for a few moments in mutual awkwardness. 

‘Let me try,’ offers Jon, at last, and gestures for Martin to shift his seat around, to sit closer to him. ‘You can… wipe it off if it’s wonky. I won’t be offended.’

‘I won’t–’

‘It’s all right, Martin,’ says Jon. He gives what is almost a smile, although he can’t quite arrange his mouth properly. ‘I can’t read my own handwriting yet. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work. Let me try. Little rainbows? Like last time?’

‘Whatever’s easiest,’ says Martin, worrying his bottom lip. ‘If… you’re sure.’ Jon waves him closer, trying to be casual about it, like he doesn’t mind that he can’t even guarantee he can draw a fucking flag any more, like he’s fine with every single damn reminder of what a broken mess he is. It’s not like it’s Martin’s fault, after all. Martin wasn’t the one who shook Jude Perry’s hand. 

Martin shifts his chair around the table until he’s within easy drawing distance of Jon. It suddenly occurs to Jon that this is all very new. They haven’t– much– outside of work–

His mouth is very dry and he takes a mouthful of tea before picking up the red stick of facepaint and arranging the fingers of his left hand in the way he’s taught himself is how he’s meant to hold a pencil. At least these particular face paints are little crayons, rather than a brush. With his right hand – useless for any fine motor control, but not in too much pain today – he grapes Martin’s shoulder and pulls him down and closer and sets to work. 

The facepaints roll onto the pink skin easily enough, and with his elbow braced against the table and his second arm holding Martin still, he achieves a relatively straight set of lines, with only a bit of bleeding between the colours and surprisingly minimal wonkiness. It doesn’t occur to him until he completes the purple line and stops concentrating on the drawing that he and Martin are… extremely close. He’s brought back to reality by the fact that their faces are now only a couple of inches apart, and Martin’s is a shade of red that almost matches the stripe on the flag itself. Jon feels a sudden heat rush into his cheeks.

‘Um,’ he says. He scoots backwards abruptly and pretends to inspect his work. ‘It’s… not terrible.’

‘Right. Um. Of course. Thanks,’ says Martin. He pulls up his phone to presumably flip on the front-facing camera and inspects his face, and then the smile is back, softer now. ‘Yeah, thanks Jon. Other cheek?’ He widens his eyes ever so slightly, and _that’s just not fair_ , but Jon leans forward again, utterly powerless to resist.

‘All right,’ he says, wondering if his voice always sounds this creaky.

The two flags do not match as well as he’d like them to. One is higher and smaller than the other, but short of wiping one off and demanding to do it again – which is… tempting, but they don’t have all day – there’s not a lot Jon can do about that. Martin seems pleased with his efforts regardless and grins happily at Jon and sips his surely-by-now lukewarm tea.

‘Don’t suppose you want anything?’ offers Martin, gesturing to the facepaint.

‘No I do not,’ says Jon. 

Martin seems to expect the answer, because his answering smile is more teasing than disappointed.

Jon, however, feels suddenly wrong-footed. He wants– he’s not sure– he’s here with Martin to–

 _Why_ he’s here with Martin, he still doesn’t know. But the world might end any day, and it might be all on him to stop it, and, well, whatever this– this– _thing_ he and Martin have is, delicate and unspoken but circling towards… something, he’s acutely aware that he’s running out of time.

Making up his mind very suddenly, he picks up his phone and does a couple of image searches.

‘At, er, university, at one point I might have wanted this flag,’ he says, and places the phone down on the table, displaying the pink, purple and blue tones. He watches Martin lean forward and study the phone. Then Jon moves his fingers and switches tabs. ‘Or this one–’ he adds, showing the stripes of purple, white, grey, black ‘–although strictly speaking I don’t know that there was a flag yet when I was at uni. Just an… identity, that I… used, for a while. But– I didn’t–’ He winces and breaks off and rolls his tongue around his teeth to try and find the words. ‘People see the flags or hear you use the words and think they know what it means, and I– I always found that it was much more complex than that, and I didn’t like… assumptions. So I– don’t really identify as– anything, I suppose. Just… something.’

He stops himself and, against his better judgement, risks a glance at Martin. Martin is staring at him extremely softly, as though Jon has just handed him some precious gift, rather than blathering on about utterly mortifying nonsense. 

Jon looks at the wall. ‘Anyway,’ he says. ‘No face paint. Thank you.’

‘Thank you, Jon,’ says Martin, ever so gently, and Jon scowls into his tea.

* * *

He lasts the hour he promised Martin, and manages to stick it out a little longer, but then he’s just so _done_ with the crowds and the people and the facepaint and the masks. The sheer weight of the pressure of them all around him is just a reminder of how many of them there are, how many he’s trying to save, and how much is at stake. 

But then suddenly, without even trying, he Knows the passcode to get into the backdoor of one of the offices lining the route, and that there’s not much additional security, and only a few flights of stairs and one un-alarmed door between them and the roof. He tugs Martin’s wrist, and they go.

Perched on the edge of the building, their shoulders pressed against each other, drinking from bottles of overpriced water with obnoxious rainbow marketing on the label, it’s better, actually. The parade stretches out down the entire length of the road, a slow-moving colourful dance, the songs and music distant and muffled but happy and rejoicing and lacking in the cynicism that Jon brings so naturally. The route is lined with spectators as far as he can see and he’s honestly relieved not to be amongst them any more. No more sweat or bodies or people. Just him and Martin, watching, guarding over them. Like they have been for a while, apparently. 

‘Is this… all right?’ he asks. ‘If you’d rather– I won’t mind, but I’m done.’

‘No, this is– this is good, actually,’ says Martin. ‘It’s a bit– much in the crowd sometimes, isn’t it? I mean, it’s exciting and fun and you’re sort of caught up with them. Usually. But this year I just felt a bit more…’ He trails off, and looks down, and rubs his hands on his jeans.

‘What?’ asks Jon.

‘God it’s– it’s the end of the world and it’s on _us_.’ Martin’s voice rises and he runs his hand through his hair, half covering his face as he does. ‘All of these people have got no idea what’s happening. They’re just– out there– living. They’re just–’ He breaks off and gestures almost angrily onto the parade. ‘And we have to– to– somehow stop it from ending.’

‘Yes,’ agrees Jon, ‘we do.’ He watches the parade for a moment, sees some people twirling and dancing in a beautiful loop, caught up in each other. It’s hard to think of anyone less qualified for saving the world than an _Archivist_ and his bloody assistants, egged on by their less than useless manager, but there he is.

‘What if we fail, Jon?’ Martin’s voice is quiet, but up here it carries.

There’s a thousand possible responses that loop through Jon’s head. The comforting lie – _of course we won’t fail, Martin_. The schoolboy promise – _well, we’ll do our best and that’s all anyone can ask of us_. The tragic reality – _it won’t really matter in that case, because we’ll all be dead or living in eternal torment_. None of them hit the right note.

_What if they fail?_

He doesn’t know. He can’t imagine it. He can’t let himself imagine it. He can’t imagine their success either, distant and fleeting and impossible though it seems to come up against Nikola Orsinov and the Stranger and hope to win.

Hesitatingly, not quite sure what else to do but remembering the easy camaraderie and comfort from Tim – before Tim got angry – or Georgie, he shifts his arm and tentatively loops it through Martin’s. He squeezes momentarily. He’s half surprised when Martin squeezes back, just for a moment, and he suddenly feels like he’s been hit in the stomach.

They sit and they watch the parade together as the sun begins to sink towards the horizon, and for a few hours, it’s enough.

* * *

## 2018

A year later, Jon sits on the roof of that same building, watching that same parade. The colours and music and laughter and joy of hundreds of thousands of others is familiar.

This year, however, he is alone.

There is no comforting weight pressed against his arm. No one to bring facepaints, and to ask Jon to draw uneven flags on his face. No one to sit out for too long and show up to work horrifically sunburned the next day, smelling of aloe vera and pouting because of it. 

No one to smile at him.

Instead all Jon has to keep him company is the _fear_ , amongst the crowds. Even from a distance he can taste it. Even amongst the thousands upon thousands, lining the road. There are pinpoints of it, bright and tantalising, glimmering and beautiful, calling to him to come closer, to find them, to talk to them. They have a story for him. They would tell him, if he asked. They would pour their pain into him and he would drink his fill for days.

Jon grasps his own hands together tightly, clutching for purchase on something – anything.

He is not here to feed.

He will not. He promised.

_He will not._

But the fear is so bright and beautiful and the statements he consumes are dry and stale and he’s so weak, and he could be _strong_ , and–

This was a mistake.

He scrambles to his feet and stumbles and for a moment his stomach’s in his throat and he wobbles, hovers, nearly falls from the building – and wouldn’t that just be so _simple_ – but knowing his rotten luck it probably wouldn’t even kill him, would it? – but then he steadies and staggers backwards, away from the edge and to safety.

He shouldn’t be here. There’s no– there’s no point. It’s ridiculous. Stupid. _Maudlin._ What could he possibly have expected? Why is he _here_? It’s been made quite clear to him where things stand, and despite that he’s pushed, constantly, past every boundary and every locked door, and every rejection, and even now he still holds out hope. And for what? Of some– some– reunion? A reconciliation? One he’s been told, again and again, is unwelcome and won’t happen? And yet he still risks those in the crowd for his own selfish hopes and desires. Even if– even if whatever feelings there had been still existed, after all this time, there are bigger things at stake. His is not the sort of story with grand, romantic moments. His is a story of disaster after disaster, each more catastrophic than the last.

Jon leaves the empty rooftop, hands clenched and stuffed into his pockets, shoulders hunched, and head down. It’s a long journey back to the Institute alone, with nothing but the fears of others to distract him, but he will do what he must.

* * *

(It turns out, his is a story with enough room for one grand, romantic moment, after all.)

* * *

(It also turns out that “happily ever after” was even more unrealistic than he’d ever imagined.)

## ####

‘So could you Know what the date is?’ asks Martin during one of their stops to rest.

They’re sitting on the uneven ground, leaning against the remains of a wall. Maybe there had once been grass, but the earth beneath their feet is crumbling and blackened. Nothing can grow here. Nothing can ever grow here again, on this ruined Earth. Jon is comfortable enough though. He always is, these days. His feet do not ache, no matter how far they walk. The stones at his back or underneath him dig in, but not too sharply. His physical self is insulated from this world, never tired and rarely hurting. Still, to have Martin pressed against him is… good. Here, Jon’s mind is always bursting full. Even now he can control it, every single little thing that he looks at, or hears, or smells, or thinks – he can Know it. Its composition, its history, its reality, its fears and hopes and loves and feelings and how to hurt it and how to destroy it. Martin’s arm pressed against his, shoulder to elbow, is a solid, steady line to concentrate upon, to block the relentless wave upon wave upon wave. Martin’s voice and his chatter and his smile does much the same job. A focal point. A moment of calm.

(Statement of Jonathan Sims: here is Martin and he is Important.)

All the same, Jon frowns at the question. ‘Time doesn’t… work here,’ he says. Martin knows this.

‘Yeah, I mean, I know,’ says Martin. ‘But if I sit here now and count one… two… three… four… five… that’s sort of five seconds, isn’t it? Ish. Time is still passing, just because all the clocks have been, I don’t know, eaten by spiders or whatever.’

Jon lets out a soft snort. ‘That’s not… quite what happened,’ he says.

‘I know,’ says Martin, giving him a nudge with his elbow. ‘My point is, surely you could just… work out when it is, Mr Post Apocalyptic Google?’

‘It’s not- I mean- it really doesn’t work like that,’ says Jon, for all that he can’t help but be fond.

‘Mm?’ says Martin, leaning his head against Jon’s. 

Jon leans into him in return and flutters his eyes shut. ( _Important, important, important._ )

‘If it’s sort of… horrible, then I guess don’t explain it,’ says Martin, after a moment.

‘It’s no more or less horrible than anything else about this place,’ says Jon. One of Martin’s curls is tickling his forehead. He loves it. He wants to stay here forever almost as much as he needs to move on. ‘We could… count the seconds as we sit here, and gain a facsimile of time-that-was,’ he continues. ‘We sat for five minutes, or an hour, or a day. It doesn’t matter either way. We sit for as long as we sit, and walk for as long as we walk. The seconds that we counted would be different to the seconds counted by those trapped in any of the domains we walk through, and different again to those who rule them. Time is as it needs to be. When you slept, at the cottage, I do not know how long it was for you, but for me it was an eternity. When I lost you in the Lonely, I do not know how long it was for me, or for you. I just know what it felt like. Even if we had both been counting seconds ever since the moment of the change, it would be different for us both.’

Martin nudges him again, and Jon shuts his mouth abruptly, clicks his teeth together as he does. He neither needs nor wants to make a statement on the linear flow or time – or lack thereof – in the hellscape he created.

‘So a bit weirder than spiders eating the clocks, then,’ says Martin at last.

Jon barks out a laugh. ‘A bit,’ he says. They sit for a few moments before he asks, ‘Why did you want to know?’

Martin sighs, and is silent for a few seconds more. The static buzzes in the back of Jon’s mind, fizzing and rising up, just a reminder that he doesn’t have to wait, if he doesn’t want to. It’s his to take. It’s his to know. It’s his right to-

_No._

It’s Martin’s to tell, if he wants.

‘Just… looking for something normal, I suppose,’ says Martin at last. ‘Bit much to hope for. I just… anything normal. Would be good. Sometimes.’

Jon hears the waver in his voice and can well imagine the attempt at a smile. He reaches and lands a hand on Martin’s knee without opening his eyes. He’s trying not to Know, but he still doesn’t need to look these days, not really. Just like how he doesn’t need to look out over his ruined world to know that there is nothing normal there. Just blood and terror and pain, and the sky watching them always.

‘It could be… December?’ he offers, and feels immediately stupid. ( _Important, important, important, important,_ and yet still he’s a fool.)

‘What?’ says Martin.

‘It’s not exactly warm,’ mutters Jon, hunching his shoulders.

He can feel Martin turn towards him. ‘So you’ve just… decided it’s December.’

‘Well it’s not like there’s anyone to contradict me,’ he points out sulkily.

‘There’s me,’ says Martin.

Jon opens his eyes, leans back and turns to look at him, and is immensely pleased to see a spark of something like humour in Martin’s eyes. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, was December the wrong choice?’ he demands, and sometimes it’s so easy, to fall into this, when all around them the world is weeping. Martin is the moment of peace, the eye of the storm.

‘I’m not doing December without a turkey dinner,’ says Martin stubbornly.

‘ _Really_?’ 

Martin giggles, and it’s almost a real laugh. ‘Anyway, this place is miserable. There’s no way this place is December. December’s a good month. This place feels far more like… like February.’

It’s Jon’s turn to object. ‘I will not have our first Valentine’s Day be in this… this… here,’ he says flatly, gesturing vaguely with one hand. Not that he likes Valentine’s Day. In fact he hates it. But it’s Martin, who does nice things for him even when he could never, ever deserve them, so he ought to try and do nice things back.

Martin’s kiss is a surprise, somehow, and he lets out an _oof_ as he’s pushed back against the crumbling wall, but being crowded in by Martin has felt like safety for so long. His lips are chapped and hot against Jon’s, and his nose squashes against Jon’s for a moment until they rearrange. It’s not a long kiss. They never are, under so many watchful eyes, but it still makes Jon’s chest flutter like the first time. When Martin pulls back, Jon rubs his hand down Martin’s cheek, stroking the day-old stubble that doesn’t grow any more. He knows he’s blushing and worst-best of all, he knows Martin can absolutely tell.

‘What was that for?’ he mutters.

‘What do you think?’ says Martin, rolling his eyes, and Jon scowls at him, although can’t quite summon much rancour. 

Then Martin settles down against him again, curling up into him. He’s bigger and taller than Jon, so it takes a stretch for Jon to circle him in his arms, and Martin has to curl up a little to enable Jon to rest his chin on the top of Martin’s head, but sometimes they sit like this. It’s nice. He likes it when Martin wraps around him and holds him, so it only seems right to reciprocate.

‘All right, so not February,’ says Martin, once he’s shuffled into place. ‘Maybe we should stop with awful winter months and just shut our eyes and pretend it’s summer. A lovely day in June. The sun’s out. The birds are singing. There’s an ice cream van just down the road.’

‘If you sit out here for too long in this weather, you’ll get sunburnt,’ says Jon, and Martin snorts into his neck.

‘Maybe we can go to the beach,’ he says next, voice quieter. ‘Or– or go on holiday. Get the ferry to France and then drive. Or just– have a picnic somewhere–’ His voice is starting to wobble and Jon thinks he can’t forget where they are, can’t banish the looming spectre of the Eye, nor the fact that there’ll never be a holiday again. He tightens his arms around Martin’s shoulders and kisses the top of his hair, leaves his face nuzzled amongst the curls as he speaks.

‘We could go to Pride again,’ he says.

‘You hate Pride,’ points out Martin.

‘I do,’ admits Jon, a rush of relief to be able to be honest. ‘You don’t. We’ll go.’

Martin leans into him more, wraps one of his arms heavily around Jon’s waist and buries his face in Jon’s neck. Jon hums lightly and kisses the top of Martin’s head again, pushing down the urge he feels to rush them, to make them continue, to move onto the next target. Martin’s breathing is coming irregularly and he’s clutching at Jon rather tightly, and Jon’s suddenly afraid that all this conversation has done is brought fresh despair into a world that should already have its fill.

‘Can we– can we do it?’ asks Martin. ‘Can we bring it all back?’

 _No,_ Jon wants to say, because he doesn’t think so.

 _I don’t know,_ Jon wants to say, because he doesn’t.

 _Does it matter,_ the Watcher wants him to believe, but of course it does.

 _Yes,_ he wants to believe, but can’t.

‘If– if we do,’ he says quietly, as he reaches up to wipe a tear from Martin’s cheek, ‘then we’ll have turkey at Christmas, even though I don’t know how to cook one and I’ve never done Christmas in my life. Although I should warn you if we’re doing that, we’re doing the Eids too. And– and there’ll be… uh… chocolates and flowers for Valentines’, which is another thing I don’t how to do, if you’re keeping count-’

‘Oh, _Jon_ ,’ says Martin, with something of a sob.

‘–And I’ll let you paint my face at Pride–’

‘OK, now my suspension of disbelief is going–’

‘–And we’ll take the train to France and spend three months driving around Europe just, staying wherever we want–’

‘Jon–’ A hand in his hair, holding, grounding, and he breaks off and attempts to smile at Martin, who attempts to smile back. It’s mutually rather watery, but he loves him, so that’s almost all right. ‘Thank you.’

Jon shrugs and reburies his nose in Martin’s hair. What else can he do but talk? Words filled with empty promises are the one good thing he can do now. The Watcher still watches and he still channels its power into pain. The world still screams and the screams still pour into his head. All he can do is hope that at the end of this, if they save anything, remake a world worth living in, then Martin survives to see it. 

He shuts his eyes again, and tightens his grip and forces himself to think only about love and other important things.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

>  _Content warnings info:_  
>  1\. In the part dated **2007** , an OC is briefly biphobic to Georgie. Most of the discussion is not heard by Jon, and the character is shut down very quickly.  
> 2\. In the part dated **2018** , there is a sentence of suicidal ideation from Jon after he nearly accidentally falls from a tall building.
> 
> If you liked this, all kudos and comments are deeply appreciated and reread every time I'm having a bad day. I also have some [other TMA fics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinyopals/works?fandom_id=11812534), and/or please come [shout about TMA with me on tumblr](https://shinyopals.tumblr.com/)!


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